Making Whoopee
by Kuria Dalmatia
Summary: 12 days was the longest Hotch had been away from Jack since Haley's death. He's not adjusting well. -This fic is part of my LJ Icon Fic Project, featuring drabbles inspired by my CM icon collection.


TITLE: Making Whoopee  
ICON ARTIST: **notimetothink**  
AUTHOR: Kuria Dalmatia  
Characters/Pairings: Hotch/Reid  
SPOILERS: Post S5 "100"  
RATING: R (profanity, sexual situations)

No beta. All mistakes are mine. Standard disclaimers.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: No, not all of my icons are by one person, it just seems that way...

Original Icon can be found at: kuriadalmatia . livejournal . com / 76811 . html

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Twelve straight days on the road wasn't a record for the BAU team, but it was the longest since Hotch had become a widower. It wasn't a pretty sight.

On Day Five, Hotch's morning jog went from thirty minutes to forty-five, because he was pissed off and it was one of the few ways to cool his temper. His pace was brutal and, for the first time since they started running together, Morgan hadn't been able to keep up.

On Day Seven, Krispy Kreme raspberry jelly donuts took some of the edge off only because he knew Reid had driven an hour and half round-trip to the only convenience mart in the town that carried them. The quart of strawberry milk kinda helped as well.

Day Eight? Fucking Reid long and hard enough to earn rug burn on their knees (and the tops of Hotch's feet) did the trick, although overhearing Rossi's snarky 'taking one for the Team, literally' the next morning irked the hell out him.

Days Nine and Ten were a repeat of Eight (sans rug burn), complete with Rossi making inappropriate comments (now within earshot).

The morning of Day Eleven included a hemorrhoid pillow left at the front desk with Reid's name on it. Hotch was astounded that Reid hadn't turned scarlet when he'd received it; his lover had simply nodded thoughtfully and tucked it in his satchel.

Hotch, of course, hadn't found it amusing and confronted Rossi in the SUV. It led to a ferocious argument as the two profilers verbally duked it out, and Rossi ended the conversation with, "At least you have a place to put your dick, Aaron. The rest of us have to settle for either dating Rosie Palmer and her Five Sisters or Good Vibrations."

Hotch got out of the SUV before he'd slugged Rossi. Thankfully, the damn thing wasn't moving.

The restaurant for Day Twelve's Dinner was one of the nicest ones in town, the type that people dined at to celebrate special occasions. It was a strategic move on JJ's part, forcing the Team's manners to kick in and they would less likely to snipe at each other when on public display. They still hadn't caught the UnSub and while the reporters would probably have a field-day with a group of FBI agents dining in luxury while the body count increased, JJ didn't give a shit. It was either forced civility or one of the team becoming the next victim.

They were seated a round table and, as usual, Hotch and Reid didn't sit next to each other. Hotch was flanked by JJ and Morgan, while Reid sat next to Morgan with Prentiss on Reid's other side. That left Rossi between the two ladies and directly across from Reid. Tensions were still pretty high, but once the salads had been devoured, the conversations became a bit less stilted.

Rossi even (reluctantly) signed a few autographs as he made his way to the men's room. On his way back, he clasped Hotch on the shoulder and murmured an apology for being out of line the day before; Hotch nodded and they shook hands, finally looking a little less grim.

Then, Rossi sat down.

And a noisy, disgusting and long-lasting fart sound filled the air.

The entire restaurant went silent.

Rossi paled, a look of surprised horror etched on his face.

The Team stared at him (as did the rest of the patrons).

Quips were on the tips of people's tongues, but they held back. JJ's eyes were wide in shock. Prentiss pressed her fingers to her lips. Morgan and Hotch cleared their throats. Reid simply sat there.

Slowly, Rossi reached under his ass and pulled out a large whoopee cushion that had been draped with a black napkin. He held it up over his head—by God, David Rossi was not going to be reported for stinking up a joint, damn it—and asked quiet loudly, "Okay, which one of you jokers is responsible?"

Everyone at the table held up their hands in innocent defense…except for Reid. Rossi lowered the cushion and gaped.

"You?" Rossi asked in disbelief. He then glared at the rest of the team. "And you got the rest of them in on it?"

"Oh no," Reid cooed primly as he took a casual sip of his water. It was a tone and an attitude that the Team rarely saw. He had an air of superiority about him and his smile just a tinge on the condescending side. "They're completely innocent." He leaned forward and stage-whispered, "Didn't you know, Rossi? I was a twelve-year-old child prodigy in a Las Vegas public high school. I'm also an amateur magician. I don't get mad, Rossi." His grin was shark-like. "I get even."

At first, Hotch coughed. Then, he put his hand up to cover his mouth and coughed again. And then, for the first time in a very very long time, he laughed. Hard. Loud. Obnoxiously. Gasping for air and slapping the table hard enough that the silverware rattled. Suddenly, the rest of the team, even Rossi, erupted with laughter.

Reid sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and softened his smile. "Totally worth it."

They caught the UnSub the next day.

/***/


End file.
